


The Right Thing To Do

by Ghostlymissions



Series: Small Moments That Mean The World [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, M/M, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostlymissions/pseuds/Ghostlymissions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Do you always have to pick a fight? Every damn time?” Bucky asked, his voice soft. “Couldn’t let this one go, huh?”</em>
</p><p>Or: Steve gets into a fight and Bucky cleans him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Thing To Do

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #2: " _You're not threatening_ "
> 
> Set in the 1930s, when Steve and Bucky are 16.

It took almost thirty minutes for Steve to catch his breath, dragging his body upright on the sidewalk, droplets of blood marking the spot. He couldn’t help but glance around sharply, half-sure that someone was going to jump him the moment he stood. But the streets were almost empty, the last of the late-night workers already home for the night. 

Steve brushed the dirt off his clothes, wincing at the jagged rip in his leg of his pants – they’d have to be tossed, no amount of stitching could hide that – and then took a tentative step forward, testing his weight. It held. He began the slow walk home, thankful his mother was working the night shift, wouldn’t be waiting up for him. 

His body screamed at him, the headache between his eyes sharply pulsing with every step. Blood trickled down his nose, down his mouth, but he didn’t bother to brush it away – no point ruining his jacket, too, and it wasn’t like people were around to stare. He’d probably have a shiner tomorrow as well, and who knows when his ear would stop ringing. But it was worth it. Always was.

The stairs to the apartment were the hardest part; a mountain to climb in the darkness, only a flickering light at each floor to guide him. Steve should have taken his time, should have stopped to rest on the third floor like usual, but Ms. Holloway was sweeping the landing. She paused to stare at him, and he was fine. He could fight and walk away strong, like any other man his age. Holding his head high, he caught himself every time he tripped against a stair. He was fine.

…until he reached the fifth floor, fumbling in his pocket for his key and coming up empty. Steve leaned his head against the apartment door, breathing hard. Goddamnit. _Goddamnit._

Footsteps on the other side. The door opened. Bucky peered down at him, his eyes narrowing as searched his face. Then he leaned against the door with a sharp smile.

“I didn’t realize doing grocery inventory was so rough. Makes my job look like a breeze”. 

Steve gave Bucky a Look, pushing inside and closing the door behind him.

“You steal the key from under the mat again?”

“Nah,” Bucky said. “Your ma let me in before she left for her shift”. He jumped up to sit against the countertop, his gangly legs almost touching the floor. “So, what, a can of peas jumped you? A box of flour was being smart?”

Steve turned on the tap, splashing his face with water, careful not to touch. “The Gallagher brothers were harassing Sarah Moore, calling her easy. I told them to lay off”.

Bucky was silent, but Steve knew. The Gallaghers were over six feet tall, surly men who worked at the docks, grew up ready for a fight. It wasn’t a battle that could be won. 

Bucky let out a breath. “That didn’t work, huh?”

“Nope,” Steve said, shrugging out of his jacket. He felt his shirt stick to his back, a sharp ache on his shoulder. Damnit. He couldn’t afford a new shirt, too. 

Bucky hopped off the counter, then reached around Steve to grab an old rag out of the cupboard. He wet it and motioned to a kitchen chair. Steve ignored him, turning back to the sink, but Bucky grabbed his arm and shoved him down, pushing the chair with his foot to face him. 

“Hey!”

“Don’t be stupid. Stay still”. 

Warm hands grasped Steve’s chin and turned his head left and right, Bucky surveying the damage. There were more callouses on his hands than the last time – Bucky’s job at the factory leaving its mark. But it felt nice, the warmth, and Steve couldn't help but lean into it a little, taking comfort where he could. Bucky touched the warm cloth to Steve’s face, expecting the wince and moving with it, and then began to wipe at the dried blood. Cool hands fluttered around Steve's swollen eye, pressing so carefully against the socket, testing the bone. It was familiar; calming, in a way.

Bucky met Steve’s eyes only briefly before looking away, but Steve knew what was coming. He knew that look so well, could see Bucky gathering his thoughts. He picked at a loose thread on his pants, unwilling to explain himself.

The silence lasted until Bucky walked around the chair to look at the scrape on Steve’s back. He felt Bucky’s thumb brush the edge of the broken skin, overheated from the wound. The damp cloth pressed against it, gently patting away any blood, and then a cool breath -- Bucky blowing on the wound, like Steve's ma always did. Steve shivered at the sensation, a tingle running down his spine. God, that felt so nice.

Bucky's hand gently gripped his shoulder. A deep breath, and then– 

“Do you always have to pick a fight? Every damn time?” Bucky asked, his voice soft. “Couldn’t let this one go, huh?”

A surge of anger ran through Steve, and he turned in the chair, giving Bucky an incredulous expression. 

“I didn’t _pick_ a fight,” Steve said. “I told them to stop. They’re the ones who swung”.

Bucky searched Steve’s face, then looked down at the bloodied cloth, folding it over to a clean spot. 

“Look,” Bucky began. ”I get it. It’s just… you’re not…”

He folded the cloth over and over, searching.

“What,” Steve said. His heart pounded. “Say it”. 

Bucky blew out of a breath, then lifted his head. Looked at Steve dead-on. 

“You’re not threatening,” he finally said. “It’ll always end in a fight, every time, because you can’t _threaten_ like the Gallaghers can”. Bucky paused. “Like I can.”

He knew it was coming, but it still stung, more than Steve thought it would. It felt like a gash, like Bucky had _stabbed_ him, deep enough to leave a scar. Something he couldn’t walk away from, could never forget. Because he _knew_ , of course he knew -- his small stature never let him forget, every time he glanced in a mirror -- but not from Bucky. He stood, moving roughly out of Bucky’s grip. 

“Steve-”

“Sarah got away because of me,” Steve said, his voice rising. “It could have been so much worse, but she made it home _okay_. So isn’t defending her enough? Why do I have to be _threatening_ to do the right thing?”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “And the right thing is getting the shit kicked out of you.”

Steve shrugged. “Sometimes. If it helps”. 

A pause. Bucky pushed the chair with his foot, watched it scrape against the wood floor. Steve’s headache was back, pounding behind his eyes, but he ignored it; it wasn’t important. Bucky’s voice was rough when he spoke.

“One day you won’t get back up, you know”.

“One day wasn’t today,” Steve replied.

They stared at each other, both knowing this argument, familiar with this impasse. Steve wanted to fight, to scream, to argue until he was blue in the face, but he swallowed back his words. Frustrated, he shoved his bangs back, untangling a clump of blood in the process. It was no use, of course - they flopped back over his forehead the minute he let go. Steve sighed.

“Buck, you know I had to,” he said. “What if it was Becky?”

Bucky pressed his lips together, nodded slowly. Steve knew he’d do anything to protect his little sister, understanding even more now that she was thirteen. It was the same.

After a beat, Bucky waved at the chair again; an olive branch, extended from them both. But Steve walked around the chair, watched Bucky’s dark eyes following him. He moved to grab the wet cloth in Bucky’s grip. Bucky didn’t let go. Neither did Steve. Their fingers overlapped.

“I’m okay, you know,” Steve said after a moment. “Just some scrapes. It’s nothing”.

Bucky didn’t respond, but he reached out, brushed Steve’s bangs off his forehead. For one crazy, insane moment, Steve thought Bucky was going to kiss him. Saw Bucky’s eyes flick down to his mouth, felt Bucky lean forward the slightest bit, mouth open, breathing unsteady. His knuckles touched Steve’s uninjured cheek, so gently. 

And for one crazy, insane moment, Steve wanted Bucky to kiss him more than anything.

But the moment passed as quickly as it was built: Bucky smiled, ruffling Steve’s hair with a rough hand, and passed over the rag. He stepped back and turned towards the couch, his sudden absence making Steve dizzy.

“I know, punk,” Bucky said. “You’re always okay”.


End file.
